


Frozen in the Headlights

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Coefficients [3]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Psycho-Pass
Genre: Blood, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Death, Guilt, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Murder, Suicide, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-01 07:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5197904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Coherency dies on the sudden knot in Irie's throat, the anxiety of desire in his veins rendering him as helpless as he has always feared he would be, in this moment, and in the silence he leaves Byakuran moves forward, his steps so uncannily soft Irie can’t hear them against the tile underfoot." Irie attempts to bring in his criminally asymptomatic Enforcer and hesitates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frozen in the Headlights

Byakuran is waiting when Irie comes out of the elevator.

He’s framed in the light streaming in through the glass windows, the glow of sunlight touching the pale of his hair into a halo-bright glow, outlining his body in light and deepening the shadows at his face. He looks different out of his Enforcer’s jacket; taller, maybe a little thinner, the white coat he picked up somewhere overlarge in a way that just makes him look more graceful, and Irie’s hands won’t stop shaking on the handle of the old-fashioned gun under his fingers.

“Sho-chan,” Byakuran says, tilting his chin up so Irie can see the bright of his smile, can watch the slow spread of delight that always turns Irie inside-out around the ache in his blood. “I’ve been waiting.”

“Byakuran,” Irie says, voice cracking itself to pieces on the name as if the syllables are diamond and his own composure spun-sugar brittle. He had more to say -- a speech, even, a plea for Byakuran to return with him even though he knows without forming the words what the answer will be. But the coherency dies on the sudden knot in his throat, the anxiety of desire in his veins rendering him as helpless as he has always feared he would be in this moment, and in the silence he creates Byakuran moves forward, his steps so uncannily soft Irie can’t hear them against the tile underfoot.

“You must be tired,” Byakuran says, coming in close, close enough that Irie wants to flinch back, would recoil if he could remember how to move his feet. Byakuran’s eyes look almost black in the shadow, the violet color Irie knows is there lost to the overbright lighting at Byakuran’s back. “How long has it been now, Sho-chan?” A pale hand, long fingers; they fit into Irie’s hair like the tangle of curls was made for them, like they were intended to settle against Irie’s skin and spark him into life. “How’s your Hue?”

Irie sucks in a desperate inhale, stumbles back over the floor; his shoulders hit the elevator doors, the support bracing him in place against the tremble in his knees, and his arms raise, his hands lift their burden to aim the gun at Byakuran. “Don’t talk,” he gasps. “Come in to the Bureau with me, Byakuran.”

“To be taken in and never seen again?” Byakuran asks, and he’s stepping closer, the slow progression of his stride not wavering, not so much as glancing at the gun instead of Irie’s face. “I’m afraid I’m not interested in being forgotten, Sho-chan.”

“I’ll shoot you,” Irie forces out, his hands shaking the worse to underline the lie at his lips. “If you don’t come in with me I’ll have to shoot you.”

“You can’t,” Byakuran says, completely level, completely even. “You’d never be able to pull the trigger, Sho-chan.”

“I have to,” Irie insists, but his hands are shaking, Byakuran is too close, he can taste sugar at his lips like the ghost of a memory. “I have to take you down.”

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Byakuran observes. He steps in closer, the muzzle of the gun bumping the weight of the jacket hanging off his shoulders, and he keeps moving, pushing Irie’s arms back like he’s not even noticed the resistance. “Your Hue must be clouded to black, if it hasn’t touched your Coefficient yet.” His smile is sweet, warm with eerie tenderness the worse for its sincerity. “I wanted to see that, you know.”

“I can’t let you live,” Irie says, the gun a weight holding them apart over an impassable chasm of cold metal inches. “I  _can’t_ , you’ll destroy the city, you’ll destroy the  _System_  and it’ll all be my fault.”

“That’s quite egotistical of you,” Byakuran hums. His hand is back in Irie’s hair, his fingers working through the strands, and Irie is trembling at the touch, humming with the electricity he has never yet been able to resist. “All  _your_  fault?”

“I was supposed to watch you,” Irie chokes, feeling the resistance bleeding out of him, feeling his hands going slack on the weight of the gun in his fingers. “You were  _my_  responsibility. You’re my problem.”

“How romantic.” Byakuran’s hand lingers at Irie’s cheek, his other coming up to curl against Irie’s fingers; Irie can’t fight the contact, can’t drag his hold free of the hand closing on his weapon as the only thing he has left to fight with sliding free of his hands. Then there’s a metallic  _click_  as the hammer pulls back, a jolt as the weight of machinery falls into a new alignment, and the gun feels impossibly heavier, only the press of Byakuran’s hand against Irie’s fingers keeping the weapon upright.

“There,” Byakuran purrs, the sound sweet at his mouth. “All you have to do is squeeze the trigger, Sho-chan. It’s easy.”

Irie’s skin is like ice. All he can feel is the chill of the weight at his hands, like all his body is turning itself to stone; the sunlight from the window catches off his glasses, blinds him for a moment so all he can see is white. Byakuran’s laugh sounds like bells.

“You can’t do it, Sho-chan.” The light slides away, Byakuran leans in to cut off the illumination, and he’s close, their hands and the gun are pinned between them and Irie can feel Byakuran’s breathing at his mouth. “You couldn’t make yourself kill me no matter how many times you tried.”

“I  _have_  to,” Irie chokes, but it’s only Byakuran’s hand keeping the weapon upright; his fingers are shaking too badly to obey any attempt he might make at tightening them on the trigger, his heart is beating too hard to allow even the effort. “I can’t let you go free.”

“You can’t stop me,” Byakuran says, and then his mouth is on Irie’s, the familiar sweet of his lips dragging friction across Irie’s skin and pressing heat into Irie’s veins. Irie’s melting, dissolving against Byakuran’s force, all his weeks of effort evaporating like they were never anything in the first place. His hand is sliding, his fingers giving way; and Byakuran’s hand tightens on his, Byakuran’s thumb digs in against Irie’s finger over the metal curve of the trigger.

“It’s okay, Sho-chan,” he purrs, and Irie can’t breathe, he can’t make any sense of the moment. “I can do it for you.”

The blast is startling enough to jolt all the air from Irie’s lungs in a gasp of terrified reaction. His wrist hurts, his chest hurts, his ears are ringing; Byakuran’s lips are moving against his, forming the shape of words Irie can’t hear past the ringing in his ears, and then the support at his hand drags into a weight of its own, the gun falls from Irie’s nerveless fingers to clatter unheard at the floor. Byakuran’s fingers flex, tighten at Irie’s wrist; and then he collapses, sags to the floor like all his bones have turned to liquid, and he’s pulling Irie with him, the grip of his fingers on the other’s wrist enough to topple him forward and onto his knees on the tile. The white coat is red, now, blossoming itself into crimson as Irie stares uncomprehending at the torn edges of the fabric, the powder-burnt edges of the hole...the blood staining Byakuran’s coat, shirt, spilling out across his skin as he offers a smile vague on the distance in his eyes.

“Byakuran,” Irie says but can’t hear, his hand coming out of its own accord to touch trembling fingers to the smooth curve of a high cheekbone. “ _Byakuran_ ” and he’s crying, his glasses are fogging from the heat and his cheeks are wet and Byakuran is smiling, curling his fingers tighter on Irie’s wrist like he’s holding himself to reality from that point.

“Good job, Sho-chan,” he says, the words echoing and barely audible over the ringing in Irie’s head, around the pounding horror of too-late adrenaline tearing through his veins. “You did it.”

“I didn’t want this,” Irie can hear himself wailing, all the attempts at bracing himself for this moment gone frail and useless as his heart breaks open on the sweet of Byakuran’s smile. “Don’t leave me alone.”

“I’ll remember you,” Byakuran says cryptically, coughing a mouthful of blood to stain his lips scarlet from the inside out. “Don’t forget me, Sho-chan.” His eyes are fading out, Irie can see the color going flat even as he watches, but his tears are blinding him, he can’t blink them away fast enough. The fade happens between one burst of tears and another, while Irie’s throat is still choking him on sobs; by the time his vision is clear again Byakuran’s smile has gone slack, his bruising hold has fallen into contact careless as Byakuran’s touch never was.

When Irie ducks his head to the shuddering violence of grief, he has to wonder what color his Hue is now.


End file.
